


Sternal Fracture

by grizzly_bear_bane



Series: Cigar Box [15]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Abandonment, Domestic Violence, Heavy Angst, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:10:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1886301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grizzly_bear_bane/pseuds/grizzly_bear_bane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's caught with Yusuf's drugs one time too many.</p><p>Eames makes one mistake after another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sternal Fracture

++

+

 

It doesn’t even hit Arthur until Nash has fled Yusuf’s flat that the drugs Nash just shoved into his pockets on the way out the door just sealed Arthur’s fate.

The little bags fall to the floor as he turns out his pockets, just as Yusuf and Eames walk in.

One man is stunned, frozen. The other storms forward, seething in a way Arthur's never seen in Yusuf.

"You little shit. I knew it!" 

"It was Nash. I swear, it was Nash!" 

Arthur can't get anything else out. He hides in a corner in the living room while Eames and Yusuf's voices boom as loud and as terrible as thunder in the kitchen, back and forth.

Yusuf shouts that he's known from the very beginning that Arthur wasn't any less trash than any other junky he's seen, even though Arthur hasn't been near coke or  _anything_ since getting Eames the puppy. If Arthur wasn't so scared, he'd march back into the kitchen and tell Yusuf just that, but what does it matter? He's trouble. Eames can't deny that. As Arthur listens to the two men argue, he doesn't hear Eames rebuff that claim, not even a little.

Then Yusuf accuses Eames of being in it, even of covering up whatever else Arthur must have done under this roof.

Eames is _livid_ at that, and it makes Arthur panic more, holding their puppy so tight, the little dog whines.

He might as well be hiding in the coat closet listening to his parents fight, waiting for the gun to go off, or... or hiding in Eames' room when Eames and Dom had squared off. But it can't get that bad. _Nothing_ can get that bad, not with Yusuf, although he's never seen Eames and Yusuf like this before. When he had actually taken a little bag of Yusuf's coke last year, Eames had yelled at  _Arthur_ and sided with Yusuf. Why wasn't he doing that now? 

The flat goes quiet right before Yusuf's bedroom door slams shut. Eames stomps in, right past Arthur. 

Arthur watches him start to shove his few clothes into his backpack. "Eames?" He almost holds his breath, waiting for Eames to say something. His heart pounds in his chest. "Eames, hey. You know I didn't do anything, right?"

"Shut up, Arthur."

"It was Nash. You  _know_ it was." He jumps as Eames stands abruptly, still not looking at him.

"What part of what I just said did you not understand?" Eames fumes for a second and without warning, he snaps. "We were doing fine here! I had work and you had a fucking floor to sleep on every night! And you had to fuck it up completely! I just wanted a chance to save up some money for _once_ and you just wouldn't let that happen! I'm so fucking sick of you!"

Arthur gets up, trying to block Eames as he stomps back into the kitchen to throw his bag at the door. "Eames, please, you know me. You have to trust me! I didn't do it this time! I promise!"

Eames looks at him for the first time, glaring down at him. "You're seriously lying right to my face?" He snatches the dog from Arthur's arms so the puppy can run away to claw at Yusuf's door.

"But I'm not!" Arthur reaches his arms out, trying to get Eames to stop moving just long enough to listen. "Please!"

Arthur lets Eames brush past him. He almost falls with the force. "Are you leaving me?" The words come out with barely a voice attached to them. He sways, lightheaded. He can't breathe for a second as Eames tries to pass him again. "You can't. _Eames_ , you can't." 

Eames stares at the ceiling as Arthur grabs ahold of his shirt. His hands ball into fists at his side. "Get out of my way, Arthur. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to look at you. I don't want to hear your voice." 

"No, you have to listen!"

Before he can blink he's on the floor of the kitchen with Eames on top of him. His hands shoot up to protect himself, as Eames pummels the tile square beside Arthur's head.

His screaming is the only thing that seems to draw Eames out of his rage enough to stop, or else it's just the pain Eames must feel as his knuckles quickly start to redden and purple.

"I could just—" Eames curses and trembles with the restraint it takes for his hands to stay hovered over Arthur's head and neck and not actually touch him. 

Arthur isn't given time to think. Eames drags him up out of fetal position and pushes him towards his bag. He lands in a shivering heap, in disbelief.

Eames paces nearby, rubbing tears from his eyes, taking one deep breath after another. His rough voice wavers. "Just pack your shit so we can go."

Arthur doesn't argue, fumbling with the zipper like he has no control over his body anymore. He can't feel the floor under his knees, or the t-shirts and cigar box he stuffs into his bag. He doesn't even notice that his own face is still dry, void of tears, void of...everything. All the warmth of the afternoon sun on their sleeping bag where they'd laid together, and the noises of traffic and the people on the street below that Arthur's grown so used to hearing, are gone, replaced by the static in Arthur's head. 

He skitters away from Eames when Eames takes his bag and catches hold of his arm to lead him out of the apartment.

Arthur wants to stop, to remind Eames that he's leaving his dog, to tell him that they're forgetting his shoes, or to even just put space between he and the man bruising his arm, but he can't speak. 

Something starts to build in his stomach as he's pulled along the street. The pavement's hot under his feet, hot on his skin, but it'll be cold tonight, and without shoes, he's screwed.

"Stop." Again, the word is just breath past his lips, too quiet for Eames to hear, which is why he nearly trips when he tries to slow down.

People are staring at them, eyes searching and thumbs pressed over their phones. They think he's being kidnapped in the middle of the day. Arthur at last realizes that he's been openly sobbing and pleading with Eames for several blocks now.

"Stop!" He pulls away, and he knows that the same hands that stroked his hips that morning can kill him as they circle his wrists and pull him into the first alley they reach.

He's suffocating as Eames takes over his space.

"Arthur, listen! I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry, just be quiet so I can figure something out for us. Please." Eames tries to wipe away Arthur's tears, to soothe him, but his knuckles just remind Arthur of why he's so scared. He closes his eyes to escape, but Eames' presence is still there, still too close.

He looks at Eames as they reach the overpass and all he can see is light slipping under the closet door when he's nine and for the first time since he can remember, he feels trapped, counting down the seconds until he hears the pop of a gun going off in his parents' kitchen.

+

 

It's been ages since Arthur's had to walk so far. He's ready to collapse by the time they reach a street of abandoned houses on the outskirts of the city. 

Arthur sits on the crumbling moss-covered porch as Eames breaks the boards off a window near the back.

It's warm and stuffy inside, damp in the darkness. The floor is wet under his feet. A cough's already tickling his throat as he uses a rock someone's thrown through one of the other boarded windows to clear away the spiders and cobwebs from the sill. He sits carefully, expecting the whole wall to give as he watches Eames pace and smoke. He hugs his stomach as it growls up at him.

In the silence that passes between them, Arthur can hear the tiny feet of some rodent scampering around upstairs. "Eames?"

"Yeah?"

Arthur stares at Eames' feet, rubbing at the bruise on his wrist. He can't look at Eames' face. "Can I have one?" 

Eames' big presence again makes Arthur draw back when he comes close, but he's grateful when he's given a lit cigarette without comment.

Eames paces for a moment longer before he sighs, long winded. "I have to go to Chicago. There may be old prospects there. Favors due, you know?"

Arthur's eyes burn. "Okay." 

"We don't have to spend our money yet. We can...get some place...better. When I get back, okay?"

Arthur watches the smoke swirl and rise from his lips when he stops holding his breath. "Okay."

+

 

It doesn't hit Arthur until he's alone in the house that he is, in fact, alone.

He paces and refuses to panic and panics anyways.

Slowly, he's coming back to life and as he starts to feel less and less numb, his panic grows. Will Eames be back tomorrow? The day after? _Next week_? What the hell is Arthur supposed to do by himself out here until then? 

He breaks out several of the windows just so he can breathe in the rotting space, but that only lets the cold in once the sun sets. He lies awake, listening to freight trains rumble by in the train yard a few blocks away.

When he wakes up the next morning, itching all over and congested, he resigns himself to stay as calm as he can, to wait for Eames to make good on his promise. 

He realizes that he's been incredibly spoiled since being with Eames. He used to know what to do, how to be resourceful, but now, he just knows that something awful will happen. 

It appears in the form of three men who look like migrant workers and smell like motor oil.

Arthur wakes up with one of them trying to get his shorts off, but the man stops as soon he sees that Arthur has nothing he wants. The other two are rifling through his and Eames' bags. They find nothing. Eames had at least taught Arthur one good thing: to keep his clothes on top, protecting their money and his medication.

"What are you doing out here, boy?"

Arthur can't speak. He hugs Eames' bag to his chest, his own still out of his reach in one man's hands. 

The tallest one looks around them in the dark space before nudging Arthur's foot with his shoe. "Get out of here."

Arthur's eyes burn, blurry by the time he gets to his feet and past them. He's mindful of his walk, his thin clothes, their watching eyes, but he gets his and Eames' bag through the window and runs, putting the distance of three houses between himself and those men as fast as he can. 

This house is better and worse than the one Eames picked. Arthur has to climb up the collapsed porch roof because the entire first story is crushed under the second. There are giant holes in the wall, all the glass in the windows long since shattered away.

But it's dryer, and the air is cleaner, save for the smell of rotting wood and exposed insulation dust.

And it's elevated. He'll be able to see Eames when he returns and call out to let him know where he is. Sunlight filters in much more here, but there's minimal cover in case it rains and he knows he'll freeze tonight if he doesn't get into Eames' clothes. 

In the middle of the night, he wakes up so hungry and thirsty that all he can do is go back to sleep, wondering if Eames can feel Arthur's heart ache from wherever the train tracks have taken him.

Doubt sets in. Eames wouldn't abandon Arthur on the edge of town like this, and leave his things here.

And does he really have a reason to leave anyways? 

 _Yes_ , but he'd promised Arthur he'd come back, so Arthur clings to that and stays put.

On the third day, Arthur's not even all that afraid of Eames anymore, he just wants him to come back. 

+

 

Arthur walks the streets once the sun has set on the fourth day, in shorts that don't have so many holes in them and Eames' only sweater.

He's made up his mind to stop waiting for Eames. 

He hadn't had a choice, really. More people had started roaming the streets in front of the house along with police, and Arthur was sure someone was planning on breaking in on him again soon. Arthur wasn't going to push his luck after getting away unharmed by those first three.

He'd still left a note, though, just in case, etched into the dirt in the house's barren yard.

It could be funny, thinking about how similar it is to be wandering alone in the city in the cold, but he just wants to cry instead. His body hurts, sore from carrying both his backpack and Eames’ but he’s not going to stop until he finds Nash. 

It’s Nash’s fault, anyways, that all of this happened. He should kill him. He  _wants_  to, but… Arthur’s got nobody anymore. Nash is all that’s left. Just thinking about it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. 

He takes a break for a moment to sit on a bench. Two women stepping outside of the diner across the street offer him their bag of fries. He wolfs down the food, instantly regretting it. Heavy food, no matter how good it tastes doesn’t sit well on a stomach that’s been empty for four days. He pukes in a bush a few blocks away, having to stop again when his legs start to shake. 

He sits on the grass to free up the sidewalk to people passing. He holds Eames’ bag tight to his chest. Maybe he should leave it behind. It’s not like carrying it any further will do him good. Eames has abandoned him. Eames is… Arthur’s eyes sting as he wonders why he even followed him out to the edge of the city. He should have known Eames was going to leave. He’d given Arthur so many chances… What else was left? 

Arthur carries both of their bags all the way back to the apartment complex still. It’s night by the time he gets there. Climbing up the stairs, he’s afraid of two things: running into Yusuf, and finding out that Eames is here. 

He’s not sure if he can consider it good luck that he sees neither of them.

Nash’s door is open. It always is.

Stepping over the threshold always feels about as bad as getting into a john’s car. He feels just as small,  _weak_ , desperate…exposed.  _  
_

"Arthur?" Nash’s eyes are bloodshot as he waves away a plume of smoke from whatever he’s got in his pipe. "Jesus fuck. When I heard Eames yelling at you, I thought you were fucking dead. Shit!"

Arthur just wants to push him out of the window as Nash laughs. 

"Or at least I thought he kicked the shit out of you. Looks like he might've thought about, though."

Arthur’s quick to cover the big bruises on his wrists. He wipes at his eyes, helpless in his anger. 

"Hey. Look, Arthur I’m sorry. I didn’t think leaving you with my stash was going to be that big a deal."

"You stole from Yusuf."

"Yeah, and…"

"You made everyone believe that it was me."

"Bullshit. Who  _wasn’t_  digging into his goods?”

"I wasn’t, that’s who! I’ve been clean since—"

"It doesn’t matter anymore. Shit, I’m sorry, but who cares now?"

"But you can tell Yusuf it was you!" Arthur’s shoulders sink. Nash is right. Nothing that can happen now will make Eames come back.

Nash sighs. "Come here." He stumbles forward, putting Arthur and Eames’ bags at the door. "Let me take care of you." He takes hold of Arthur’s jaw, his teeth yellow and black as he grins. "Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll get you settled in just nice. Get your mind off things..."

+

 

Arthur feels raw, curled up on the nasty bed beside Nash.

Nothing happened. Nash passed out after taking the pictures of Arthur he plans on selling for a few bucks. Getting redressed, Arthur knows Nash won’t let himself pass out again. 

Only, there isn't going to be a second time. You don’t put your entire life into the hands of someone like Eames and just…get over it and move on to this hell Arthur’s found himself in. He's hit rock bottom before, when Mal died. He had a plan then, he's got the same plan now.

And he hates more than anything that the one problem he’s ever had, the one habit he could never fully kick, is the one thing that he can turn to now. Any hard drug Nash can put in Arthur’s hands, he uses, promising to pay for it tomorrow.

For the first time in four days, Arthur feels the painful void start to fill. 

"I need more." He sits on the floor with Nash, pushing away someone else’s forgotten needle with his bare foot, feeling his heart pound, his adrenaline rise.

Nash’s eyes go a little wide. “Think you wanna take it easy? I know you’re upset or whatever, but… you’re gonna fry your brain if you’re not careful.”

"That’s the point. Get me fried."

"You know you’re not gonna wake up tomorrow if you take any more of this…"

Arthur pauses, feeling Nash’s hand slide up his knee under the coffee table separating them. He already feels sick in his stomach, his head thick from a pounding migraine.

He plays with the razor blade through the pile of white on the old mirror. He sees his reflection. It doesn't look good. “Ever wonder if the world would be better off without you?”

It takes a moment for Nash to respond as he watches a group of starved thin women collapse over each other in a heroin fog. “Nah. Fuck the world.”

Arthur huffs, wiping a spot of blood from his nose. “Well, I felt that way for years.” He clears his throat, unable to keep his emotions in check now that the words are out of his head. “Eames used to try so hard to convince me that I was worth something, you know? Like maybe I had potential. But… I know now. He was lying. Not even he could put up with my poison forever.”

"Poison." Nash reaches across the coffee table to carefully pinch Arthur’s nose. He sits back, looking at the blood now on the pad of his thumb and the side of his pointer finger. "You are some pretty hot poison then."

"Maybe."

Nash watches Arthur snort every line. One by one… 

+

 

Arthur's never witnessed an overdose himself, but he's heard people talk about it. 

It's different, drug to drug, person to person. He had a feeling it would hurt, but not like this.

He figures Nash might notice something's up soon, so he convinces him to go get cigarettes. The man is still somewhere in the apartment complex, bumming smokes and stealing from whoever he can, but at least he's gone. 

Arthur's head pounds, heart flutters. He shivers as he stumbles through the apartment, rubbing off imagined bugs from his arms and legs, wishing he could wash the dried blood from his nose, but Nash's place hasn't had running water in over three months.

Nash comes from money. Arthur can't help but let that fact circle around and around in his head as he's curled in a ball on the floor. There's no food, the refrigerator's gone, and Arthur can see the space where a large TV must have been. He's seen the whole country, whole world, maybe, and even went to college. Nash comes from money, and it all goes up his nose and into the glass pipe he keeps in his pocket. 

Arthur can't imagine what he'd do if he'd had the life Nash once did. He could be graduating from high school in another year or so, thinking about colleges and a future where shivering on a dirty floor doesn't exist, where Eames... He stops thinking about Eames. He feels sick.

The last straw is hearing their puppy bark at Yusuf through Nash's open door. Arthur rolls onto his stomach and peeks from behind the couch to watch them. Yusuf looks happy, if a little irritated to have to walk down the hall to close Nash's door before he goes into his own apartment. When Eames comes back, Arthur hopes that the two friends will forgive each other, that Eames can keep staying with Yusuf, since the source of the problem will be gone by then.

Arthur feels like his soul is getting too big for his body at this point, but he still panics, afraid that it's not enough. He rummages through the empty drawers and cabinets, under the threadbare couch cushions, and under Nash's bed. He finds a bag half full of something that looks like white candy crystals in it, but he has no idea what to do with those.

Crawling into the bathroom, he climbs to his feet and finds pills behind the mirror over the sink.

His chest burns and his freezing hands hurt just trying to get the cap off. 

He's shaking so much that they spill and clatter into the sink, down the drain and on the floor. He barely has time to get frustrated over it as his head swims and chills take over. 

"Arthur?"

He blinks and he's on his back. Nash is drowning him with some cloudy drink that makes him gag violently, his empty stomach twisting into painful angry knots. He tries to push Nash's hand away from his throat and wrist but he can't move.

Something hard slides down his sore throat. It could be a pill, but it's bigger than the ones he'd tried to get out of the bottle. Nash makes him swallow again, choking him on the bottle of water he tries to make him drink. 

For a second of clarity, Arthur thinks Nash is trying to kill him himself. It's a lot more scary than dying alone. He tries to fight Nash when the skinny man struggles to wrap a blanket around him, begging Arthur to drink more water. 

This was a mistake. Arthur should have waited for Eames, but he can't get up and he can't tell Nash that he wants to live.

His chest doesn't feel so tight anymore. When Nash asks him to drink the water, his throat doesn't feel so tight. The blanket is old, but it's warm. Eames' sweater is warm too. Arthur can trace his fingers over the woven fabric and feel the texture again.

In the distance he can hear people fighting from where he's been wrapped up on Nash's couch.

He wakes up and sees...Eames, hovering over him under Nash's roof. He wants to cry, to smile, to say something, but he can't get his brain to work properly. It's okay. This is what he wants. He won't ask where Eames has been or where his black eye came from. He's willing to forget everything else, being scared, being alone, and pretend like none of this ever happened, just to keep blinking up and seeing Eames' face.

When he wakes up again, they're somewhere else. His head is cradled in Eames' lap and Eames is talking to him, and he can feel that the side of his face and forehead are wet, but they aren't his tears.

++

+

 

**End.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> For more drabble requests, questions, inspiration pics, and updates for this fic series and more, visit grizzly-bear-bane.tumblr.com/
> 
> Special thanks to whiskyrunner and tamat9 for beta-ing(?)!


End file.
